


Oblivion

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, I'm not sorry, Insanity, Madness, Oops I Wrote Another One, These are really fun, memory gun, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 17:31:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10470348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: His mind screams: like the whistle of a firework before it explodes, that is his mind, whistling, shrieking, growing ever closer, ever closer, to the spiraling darkness that is his own terror and torment.An exploration of Fiddleford's descent into madness and his recovery thereafter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, two in one day! I'm getting good at this whole "pump out drabbles for fun" thing. I'm enjoying exploring Fiddleford's character.

His mind screams: like the whistle of a firework before it explodes, that is his mind, whistling, shrieking, growing ever closer, ever closer, to the spiraling darkness that is his own terror and torment. He hears it in his ears, an ever-enduring sound like the buzz you hear in an unsilent silence, a sound like a million hornets singing to the tune of shattering glass. He sees it behind his eyes that he cannot close; a sound that looks like a person being torn in two or a man tearing out his hair as he descends into insanity, a sound that looks like a child lost in a crowd of strangers who want it dead.

His mind cracks: like the tortuous, agonizing pressure bearing down eternally on the ribs of a suffocating person; like the lenses of the round glasses he abandoned when even they didn’t help his unfocusing eyes. It feels like pain and terror and darkness filtering into his head. It’s a cold oblivion worse than Hell. It sounds like bending wood, like a thunderclap, like that quiet snap of a twig in the woods. At least in Hell he would feel something.

His mind recoils: every mention makes him shake, every thought makes him tremble, every memory makes him fall to his knees and rip out chunks of his suddenly-white greasy hair. Every vision of That Place has him reaching with a trembling limb towards his salvation, towards the only thing that could make him feel bliss. His mind reaches for this feeling, this fleeting hallucination of safety because he’s never safe, he still sees That Thing, he still sees His face even though he doesn’t know who He is--square jaw, brown hair, wood cabin, scientific genius, a horrible man.

His mind shatters: like a baseball thrown through a stained-glass window made from the broken blue bulbs of a thousand of his blasted, blessed invention, suddenly it is wide wide open to the cold and the dark and the bliss of emptiness. He screams he screams he screams he screams and the tears roll down his cheeks but he doesn’t know why, he is finally free, he sees nothing, he feels nothing, he hears nothing. All is oblivion, all is terror, all is liberty, all is bliss.

His mind is empty: like an abandoned cabin in the woods, like a family he forgot he had except for that man working at the lake, like the eyes he sees when he looks in the mirror. Who is he? Where is he? What year is it? There is nothing. He is free.

* * *

His mind blinks: like some great prehistoric animal lumbering from the depths of the deep sea, Fiddleford McGucket emerges. He knows who he is. He knows where he is. He knows when it is. He knows who those people are around him. It sounds like chattering voices and tinkling laughter and comforting words, like the song of a robin or the cry of a gull or the screech of a raptor. It feels like a warm summer breeze and a comb running through his patchy hair and fresh new clothes on his back, like a great big house and lots of friends and, more specifically, like the return of his best, oldest, closest friend. It smells like big barbecues and vanilla cake and bonfires and marshmallows and the smoke of fireworks, like the damp of trees in the misty morning and the crispness of summer’s end blowing through his windows.

His mind remembers, his mind forgives, his mind heals. Fiddleford McGucket is home.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave some kindness in the comments if you liked this!


End file.
